So
by Licorice Tears
Summary: ONESHOT. You sit on your throne, made of crushed bones and dreams, your wand held loosely between your index and ring fingers, like a proper wizard, perfectly and unnaturally polite.


A/N: I am bored. Someone decided to hit me with a ball _in the stomach and in the eye, _and I am grumpy because The Art of Hidden Personas has not been updated yet, and I am very out of fanfiction. Woe, woe, is me. I am sorry for whining. Truly, I am.

Remembrance Day is a holiday in Canada, similiar to Veteran's Day in the United States, I think, in case no one gets that part at the end.

Also, I kind of slightly bashed Dumbledore. Sorry, Dumbledore fans. I just needed another "powerful" figure(to Harry) to write. Plus, Dumbledore bashing happens so often I figured that no one would care. Am I wrong? Oh, well. Too bad.

Anyway, I wrote this during school, so it may be sucky, but hey, I is bored. Review and enjoy, dears!

**Disclaimer**: What do you mean disclaimer? I own the world! Mwa-ha-ha!

* * *

You sit on your throne, built of crushed bones and dreams, legs crossed properly, and wand held loosely between your index and ring fingers, like a proper pureblood wizard.

You are not pureblooded, but your pride does not let you pretend to be anything but. You pride yourself on the fact that so many people believe you. Besides, telling the truth is as much an oxymoron as friendly fire is.

Truth is unneccesary in this era, as Machiavelli said. At least, what you think he said.

Head staring straight ahead, menacing and cruel, but perfectly and unnaturally polite, like you always are.

_(Manners, manners, darling, they have told you. Impression are everything.)_

Blood speckles, like so many fallen leaves on the ground. Red and dark, and silky smooth, so very smooth. So many leaves on the ground, splattering quietly like rain, yet to be raked away and covered with yet more dark carpet.

_(What a lazy gardener you have.)_

_ (May I inquire as to his salary? Too much, too much, I think.)_

Bedpost shining, glittering moonlight, silver, silver, on the table. So bright, bright, bright, made of swollen tears and silent sorrow. Silver and silver and silver and silver and silver and silver and red dotting the edge. Dark red, dry red, like so many strange speckles.

_(Silver swords and silver ice, ask the orphans, who pays the price? I do, I do, they sing, so sad. I do, I do, they sing, so sad.)_

_So sad._

* * *

You are wizard, you are lord, you are master.

You are Lord Voldemort, and they all must bow down to you in knowledge of their inferiority. Because that is what you deserve, and what you deserve, you get. You are invincible, you are God, you are powerful, you are everything they are not.

No one has ever told you that there is a reason they are not those things. And you never learn what no one tells you. And of course, you do not want to learn.

Never say no, all people learn. Never deny, so many people learn. Curses are ever-so useful.

_Voldy, Voldy, moldy Voldy,_

_How does your garden grow?_

_With dying children and green curses, _

_Corpses laid in a row._

Especially _Avada Kedavras. _So very useful.

Fear and obedience is everything, you believe, as much as you believe that you will never die. Power is power, gained by force or willingly. Power will always be power.

You are wizard, you are lord, you are master.

You are Lord Voldemort, and you are going to die.

An _Avada Kedavra _speeds your way, your own curse rebounding on you, a boomerang saling back to its thrower. Turnabout is fair play, as so many of them say. As you, as Tom Marvolo Riddle, Hogwarts student, used to say.

Such an especially useful spell it is, you think randomly, eyes shocked and wide.

* * *

You are teacher, you are mentor, you are leader.

You are Albus Dumbledore, and you lead them all. You teach them, and they listen and follow you, like such wonderfully obedient little sheep. They never say no, for who would deny the great Dumbledore? Awe is such a wonderful, blindly, foolish thing. People are such fickle things. Perfectly pliable.

After all, everyone will trust the one who is everything they want to be.

_For the greater good_, is your motto. The ends will always justify the means.

Everything is for the greater good.

_Paint me black and paint me white, _

_Paint me Dark and paint me Light._

_Paint me kind and paint me bright, _

_Paint me cruel and paint me lies._

You are teacher, you are mentor, you are leader.

You are Albus Dumbledore, and you are going to die.

An _Avada Kedavra _speeds you way, sent by Severus Snape, your own execution ordered by yourself. You feel sorry for him, that poor boy that has never seen happiness. The Unforgivable are such evil curses, you teach everyone, and everyone learns.

Such an evil spell it is, you think before you fall, smiling gently.

* * *

You are husband, you are worker, you are man.

You are Vernon Dursley, and you are normal. You have a normal wife, a normal son, and a _non-existent nephew._ And if you had a nephew, he would be normal too, just like your darling Dudley. Your _non-existent _nephew _does not exist. _

You are status quo incarnate, but for the 2.5 children.

(But who needs two and a half children? You have your dear, sweet, Dudders, and he is all you need to be normal.)

Average, like everyone and no one is. Nothing bad will ever happen to you, because you are perfectly normal, perfectly normal.

Right?

_Normal,_ normal, is your goal in life. _Normal _is what you and your family pride themselves on being.

You are husband, you are worker, you are man.

You are Vernon Dursley, and you are going to die.9(

An _ Avada Kedavra _speeds you way, sent by some freak in a dark cloak and white mask. You have never believed your _nonexistent _nephew(_yes, non-existent, non-existent, non-existent)_, so why should you have believed him when he warned you to beware of these people, the - Death Munchers?

But this time, you know you should have listened to the _freak. _But you have never given his words the weight they deserve. Because he is unnatural, a freak. Him and his strange, freakish, friends waving strange, freakish, sticks, muttering strange, freakish, spells like this one.

Such a freakish curse it is, you think, before you are gone.

* * *

You sit on your throne, made of crushed bones and dreams, legs crossed properly, wand held loosely between your fingers, like a proper wizard.

Head tilted, mouth closed, slack, silent, so silent. But perfectly polite. Unnaturally polite.

_(Silence is golden, duct tape is silver, but _Crucios_ are diamonds, you preach to yourself. Your Death Eaters have learned it the hard way.)_

Blood on the ground, like fresh plucked poppies, crimson and puddled, dark and dangerous. Your blood, you realize, gazing intently with cloudy eyes. You are not invulnerable after all, you realize too late, far, far, too late.

_(Remembrance Day. And the world will remember you, won't they? You have made sure of it.)_

_(So sad, so sad.)_

_So sad._


End file.
